


Your Favorite Half-Light

by Amberly



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM as therapy, F/M, Femdom, PWP, Praise Kink, Present Tense, References to past trauma, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 14:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20176144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberly/pseuds/Amberly
Summary: She’s in the chair. He finds her with one leg crossed over the other, hair loose, spilling red over her bare shoulders as she watches him, quiet and catlike.  Bucky doesn’t know how she knows. If someone tells her. He thinks briefly of Steve and then dismisses it. Steve doesn’t like this—doesn’t like talking about all the wires still shorting in his brain, the things twitching under his skin that won’t find stillness until After.





	Your Favorite Half-Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).

> I didn't make the rules. You get two birthday presents. Because I said so. Bucky!Nat is one of my absolute favorite pairings ever, but I've never written them before. What better time to do it than for a friend who is constantly encouraging and always there when I need her? 
> 
> I don't usually write Het, so this was an Experience. There was also supposed to be pegging, but it didn't work in this context. Oh darn. I'm going to have to write another fic. Whelp. Can't be helped. That also means I can take this a little deeper next time, and get REALLY kinky. 
> 
> Title comes from "In Your Room" by Depeche Mode, which uh. Just give it a listen while you read. Just saying.

She’s in the chair. He finds her with one leg crossed over the other, hair loose, spilling red over her bare shoulders as she watches him, quiet and catlike. Bucky doesn’t know how she knows. If someone tells her. He thinks briefly of Steve and then dismisses it. Steve doesn’t like this—doesn’t like talking about all the wires still shorting in his brain, the things twitching under his skin that won’t find stillness until After. 

After, he thinks, is the best part. 

There’s sun spilling through the thin silk curtain, leaving her backlit. Black, not red, because the only red allowed here is her hair. The flush of skin. Swollen lips. Maybe it’s Clint, he thinks, already unzipping his jacket. Clint knows what it’s like to be undmade now, too, to use her terms. Her labels for what was done to them, separately and together. He folds his clothes with careful, practiced precision, leaving them at the door and walking to her with a swagger he’s always had, something he never had to learn but that lived in his muscles the way so much of him did, before. 

Some of it’s coming back now. 

She’s watching him. Watching him kneel in front of her, put his hands behind his back. It spills heat through his belly. The weight of her gaze is practiced, expert, and Bucky fights to keep himself still. To keep his blue eyes fixed on the carpet. She’s painted her nails again—black, this time—and Bucky thinks this is the only part of her that isn’t beautiful. The broken ballerina’s feet. He thinks—

Nothing. There’s a hand in his hair (her hand). Nails on his scalp and he leans forward just enough to press his forehead to her knee. Clutches more tightly at his hands. She is soft and deadly and he shifts his weight just enough to shift from his forehead to his cheek. Hears the soft catch of breath as he rubs the stubble against her smooth skin. There’s a parting, more a feel than anything he can see. A future invitation. There’s more space near his head, a wider opening, and he presses his lips to the creamy, muscled thigh she’s bared for him in supplication. By Natasha’s will he will unexist. By Natasha’s word he will come apart and coalesce again, more whole, shaking and soothed by the mindlessness of her order. 

She is the only religion he knows. 

The hand in his hair tightens. There are fingers on his cheek, light and weightless as they dance over his skin, smoothing over a bruise and then stroking his jaw. Tipping his face up, slowly, burning eyes meeting his for a moment. Before he jerks them away, rejecting personhood in her honor, still trembling with the air raid sirens, the feel of asphalt. Smell of burning. Bucky takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. Gives himself into her hand, soaking up the soft strokes to his cheek, the ones running down his neck. She won’t let him look down again, but she lets him keep his eyes shut. 

The hand in his hair goes and he whimpers as it does. Bites his lip against the light pat to his cheek, the soft, reproachful “no” he gets in response. Here he’s a tool, but a tool of a different kind. Natasa uses him and he breaks into a million pieces, reassembled by her practiced hands. 

There is skin against his arm, the one of flesh, soft and warm and sliding on to his shoulder, and he takes a ragged breath. Reaches to run his fingers over the dainty bones in her ankle. Natasha is shifting forward on the seat, fingers curling back into his hair. She could kill him like this. Crush his head between her thighs. Snap his neck. It thrills through him, the idea that she is just as dangerous as he is. He finally, finally opens his eyes, hooded and blue and glassy, already, thub tracing the muscle of her calf. She is open and the opposite of defenseless, the weight of her leg a steady anchor. 

“Taste me,” she commands. He shudders and moves without thought, both hands sweeping up her thighs, drawing her closer as the nails against his scalp guide him forward. She is heat and wet, coating his tongue, and he moans. Flutters his eyelids shut and holds her tight as he licks out, again. Bucky curls an arm around her hip, uses two fingers to hold her open and sucks, and she goes taut. She is sharp inhales and a staccato moan, and he is living on it, on her breath and the way the hand not in his hair goes to her breast, cups it, rubs a thumb over the nipple to draw out a hiss and he groans. Sucks and lets her hold him where she wants him, mouth against her tight and hungry until she arches, goes battlefield taut and then stills, cheeks flushed. 

She doesn’t have to ask him to move back. He just does, settles on his heels, face wet, a mess, hair a wild tangle around her fingers. His gaze is down, his hands still on her thighs, stroking gently. Natasha comes his hair back. Touches his cheek, tenderly, then carefully moves around him to stand. 

“Sit.” Another command. A gesture, towards the chair. Bucky stands, unsteady, pupils blown. He staggers to the chair and sits and she is on him in a heartbeat. Leans forward in to him and drapes her arms around his shoulders. He holds tight to the chair. Knows he isn’t to touch. He’s here to be used, and she does. Straddles him and sinks down and tosses back her hair. The flush on her cheeks rushes down over her neck, her chest, pink nipples peaked as they brush against him. She’s not loud. She’s breathy moans and soft gasps and he tightens his grip on the chair. Holds still, even as he trembles. Even as his toes curl against the carpet, the feel of her around him like silk. Like waking up in their bed, warm and far away from Hydra. 

“Good,” she praises him, one hand trailing over his chest. “You’re so good for me, James.” Soft, sincere, her thumb brushing his nipple, and he can’t help it. He whines, low in his chest, rumbling as his fingers flex on the chair. She leans closer, brushes their lips together and finds his hands with her own. Guides them to her hips. “Such a good boy. Sweet thing.” Not a coo. He wouldn’t want a coo. But tender. Low. He cries out, finally, holding tightly to her hips. She twists them and mouths at his jaw and he throws his head back. Let’s it drape over the back of the chair as she rides him, all body rolls and swiveling hips. 

“I want you to move for me,” she tells him, leaning in to the hand on her breast. Her own breath hitching at the way his rough fingers roll her nipple. “I want to feel you. Come on, sweet thing. Let me see you be good. Let me feel you." Breathless and hungry as she moves against him, encouraging the tentative thrust of his hips. Her lips are at his ear, teeth grazing it, and he shudders and moans and touches her wherever he can, bucking in to her. Matching her rhythm, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes as one manicured hand slides down her body. She touches herself and twists her hips and he leans in. Dares to bite at the crook of her neck, a place he knows, and there. Natasha goes taut, tightens, moaning as he thrusts upwards, her body vibrating with pleasure, eyes fluttering shut. 

He swallows hard and stills, panting. Her fingers are on his skin. In his hair, touching him, teasing little grazes of her nails. She stands, offers him her hand and a smile. When he takes it, she hauls him up and draws him in for a kiss, hand resting on the nape of his neck as she presses the line of her body to the line of his. There’s no inch to give between them. They are muscle and sinew, bodies of bone, and Bucky shudders as she takes him in her hand. 

“You did so well,” she murmurs. “I’m so pleased with you. Such an obedient boy. You listened so well. Looked so good between my thighs.” It continues. Goes on and on and he whites out, blanks on the high of her praise. Lets himself go at her urging, spilling in to her hand without sound, lips parted, eyes screwed shut. He is flushed and panting, covered in sweat and the slick from between her legs, and completely blissed out. “Good. So good, babydoll.” 

It makes him keen. He’s been worthy--been good enough, weak-kneed and trembling as he gazes at her, utterly spent. Natasha strokes the hand not covered in his come through his hair. Draws him in for a kiss with a pleased little hum, her tongue a hot brand against his. And then she’s pulling him along, dragging him to the bed. Wiping her hand on a cloth and he can only climb up. Wrap his arms around her as she climbs up and sweeps her hands over his back, down his chest. He kisses her reverently on the mouth, then between the eyes, and she laughs, soft and twinkling. It warms him from the inside out, chases away whatever was left of the siberian winter in his heart. 

“Rough?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“Yeah.” It’s one word, and enough. She curls around him and curls right back. Keeps her close against him as he starts to fade out, aware of every inch of her. Every brush of her hand, the steady pattern of her breath against his collarbone. It’s a relief, and he is good. Bucky sleeps, grateful for the heavy exhaustion pulling him down. 

He does not dream. 


End file.
